


Your Sweet Insecurities (You Charmed Me With Knives)

by RocksCanFly



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Problem Sleuth is aware of this, Spades Slick has issues with emotions, dirty things in alleyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Problem Sleuth cuts a rug, Spades Slick is Spades Slick, and for some GPI forsaken reason- they work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sweet Insecurities (You Charmed Me With Knives)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Path](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/gifts).



> Path wrote a lot of things, which made me really want to write a thing, so here's the thing.

**Problem Sleuth: Get jiggy with it.**

You don’t know what the hell _jiggy_ means, and you’re pretty sure the narration’s about 30 years or so off of whatever twisted time period it thinks you’re in, but you are going to continue cutting the rug with the fine dame in front of you.

HD is all legs and hips tonight, twirling in your arms as the two of you make your way across the dance floor.

You bring her in for a sweeping dip as the song comes to an end, and almost drop her when you see who’s glaring at you from across the room.

Spade Slick, cranky looking as ever in an ensemble of all black and flipping a knife back and forth between his hands is staring pissilly at you as you bring HD up from her dip.

You avert your attention from the angry man for a moment to make your excuses to her. Curious and more perceptive than you’d like, she follows where your line of sight would have been when you were holding her up. Spotting Slick, she gives you a sly smile and nudges you in his general direction. She leaves with a parting smack on your ass, flouncing away to charm some poor saps over at the bar into buying her a drink or three.

Women.

You meander your way over to Slick after grabbing your coat and hat from the rack on the wall. You doubt you’ll be coming back to the club once you follow him. As soon as he spots you coming he’s slipping out the backdoor. You slip your coat on and put on your hat before you follow him into the alleyway.

The moment you step through he’s got you pinned against a wall, his chest to yours and his hand in your hair. You mash your mouths together for a few moments before pulling back.

“Hey there Slick, didn’t think I’d see you around tonight. Didn’t you have something planned for the Felt?” you ask breathlessly, twining your hands in his collar.

“Got done early,” he grunts. He aims for your mouth again and you dodge playfully.

Things become a little less playful when he presses a knife against your side- the touch is light, the presence almost teasing, but you can take a hint. No playtime tonight. Raising your brows in question because, wow, _rude_ , you let him back at your mouth.

Soon enough you’ve progressed beyond kissing into groping and grinding, and you’re doing your level best not to let this escalate to the two of you making a mess in the alley. Again.

It’s not exactly an easy task.

He’s hungry for you, digs his short nails into your rump- palming and fondling at your ass with one hand while he holds a knife to your throat with the other. He’s got a knee pressed high up between your legs- you’re practically balanced on his thigh, you’re having trouble keeping both feet on the ground here.

And fuck him, since when was he as tall as you, how the fuck did he get as tall as you? You are both _way_ past the time when you should be getting growth spurts. Anyway, he’s got a thigh pressed against your crotch, the little shit- and it’s all you can do right now not to grind down on it like a dog in heat.

He does this, this _thing_ with his hand where he presses it smooth up the top of your rump, digs a little into the crack, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, trails his nails gently up your side and back, pressing into you, rucking up your shirt. He gets as high as the top bump of your spine, pauses to rub lightly at the knots in your neck, all teasing pressure and sharp little bites of nails that almost make you whine for him.

Then he rakes his nails down you, and if feels like a line of fire passing down your spine, like whiskey poured down your throat but it’s going down your back, straight to your tail bone and then he’s raking his short claws down he curve of your ass and gripping it tight and digging his hands in and shit he _squeeze_ s-

And you, you fucking _slut_ , you can’t hold back a moan, not after that. Fuck him and his hands and how much he knows you like getting your ass played with, the smug little shit. He grins at you like that bastard he is and gives another squeeze and damn you, you can’t hold back a moan because _GPI_ does that feel _good_.

He’s grinning into your neck now, sucking and biting and bringing up roses on your skin above your collar- the asshole. He gives zero shits how much flack you’ll be catching for these marks from the boys and GPI you hate him sometimes. So you do a little exploring of your own, careful of the knife he’s moved back into his sleeve because you know that if you make one wrong step it’ll be back against your jugular in a flash.

You move your hand from where it was gripping his shoulder for balance to palm at his crouch, roughly and with all the desperation of his caress and none of the teasing. You are going to make him fuck you in this alley way if it _kills_ you.

Okay, actually, with Slick you should probably take slightly more care with your language. If it _lightly maims_ you. But he’s got you moaning like a slut and you’ll be damned if you let him win this round. You fondle him roughly, petting as much of his junk as you can get at with his pants still on. It’s not much, but judging by the way his needle teeth are piercing into your shoulder, it’s enough.

You’re just getting around to fumbling open his pants with one hand when he groans gutturally into your neck. Detaching himself, he shoots you a fucking _filthy_ look, he slips his hand back out from down the back of your pants and-

The fucker picks you up and _slings_ _you over his shoulder._

Oh.

Oh _hell_ no.

“Slick, you piece of shit, put me down!” you growl angrily. You’d yell at him, but you really don’t want anyone coming to check and see what the noise is about. Especially not the Crew if they’re nearby, GPI that’d be a disaster. You can feel your face burning at the thought of it. Droog would never let you live it down.

You start hammering at his back with a fist when he ignores you, cursing at him. It’s bad enough that he just had you moaning like a whore in a damn alley, now he’s got the balls to sling you over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. You start wriggling, unsuccessfully trying to free yourself from his grip, hit him in face with a foot, the diaphragm, even just knock him off balance and send you both crashing down- anything to get the hell down and salvage a bit of your much depleted dignity.

You stop abruptly when you feel the cold threat of a knife pressing into your thigh.

“Slick, _Slick_ \- what the fuck, put me down!”

“Not a chance,” he grumbles, adjusting you slightly as he ducks into a side street. You’ve never been happier that this city is such a rat’s warren, all alleyways and narrow streets. Normally it’s a pain in your ass, but right now you’re just glad no one’s going to catch a view of you slung over the city’s top mobster’s shoulder from a broad street.

“Look, just put me down dammit, I’ll walk!” In a slightly more hushed voice, just above a whisper, you hiss, “I want to fuck just as much as you do, so just put me down and we can get there faster than with you carrying me!”

Slick just keeps walking, his other hand coming up to pinch your ass the only indication that he even heard you. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s grinning like the needlessly violent maniac he is.

 Before long he’s stopping in back of a large brick building. You recognize it as one of the many safehouses he has scattered all over Midnight City. There’s no entry way on the back, and he makes to head around towards to the front of the building through the alley.

The front of the building which happens to face one of the most popular parks in Midnight City.

A park where you know Pickle Inspector is spending the day with his lady friend.

It’s not as bad as Ace Dick seeing you, but still. Hell no. Hell fucking no.

 “Slick, you shit don’t you dare fucking step foot in that avenue, I will shoot you, you sunuva-“

Blessfully and surprisingly, he stops.

“Fine, you blubbering pansy. I’ll spare your precious sensibilities,” he grumbles. He does a heel-face turn and walks back down the alley until he reaches the fire escape.

“Okay,” you say. This is much better. “Now, let me down and we can climb up to your apartment.”

He laughs meanly. “Told ya, Slueth. I ain’t lettin’ you down. I’m climbing. You’re riding.”

You get a little hot with the double implications of that little bit of verbage until you feel him dip. Oh, _shit_. He’s actually going to try and jump for the rung of the escape with you on his shoulder.

The little shit is strong, but he isn’t that strong. You brace yourself for disaster, hands out in front of you to mitigate the inevitable effect of him tipping off balance and falling backwards with you over his shoulder. Your hands and wrists are going to take a beating, but hopefully you can spare your face.

You tense when he makes to jump, then promptly deflate when he simply stands back up. You hear a clang, and realize he’d been carrying a hook-and-string in his pocket to pull the ladder down.

Had the little fucker planned this?

You-

Wouldn’t be at all surprised, actually. Slick has proven himself inventful when it comes to humiliating you in the past. You guess it makes up for the fact that he has no imagination when it comes to anything else.

Or he had it because he just used it to rob the Felt Manor. More likely, but slightly less romantic, or what ever it is you'd call planning to lightly humiliate your lover by slinging them over your shoulder and carrying them off in the middle of the damn city. You choose to believe he was thinking of you.

He pulls the ladder down with a shrill squeal of rusted metal. You flinch, hoping no one in the building pokes their heads out their windows to investigate the sound.

He starts climbing.

It’s extremely uncomfortable to watch the ground disappearing beneath you.

It’s less so when he hauls himself off of the ladder and onto the stairs. After about six stories of climbing, during which his breath gets a lot heavier (though not as heavy as you’d like. The scrawny bastards in good shape, even with all those cigs he smokes), you reach his destination- a big, barred window that leads to his top floor penthouse.

He rustles around in his pockets, looking for the keys. Ordinarily you’d take his distraction as an opportunity to get the fuck off his shoulder, but you’re not dumb enough to try any stunts when six stories off the ground. 

After a moment he finally swings the bars out and gets the latch open, stepping into his living room. You breathe a sigh of relief, both because you’re pretty sure no one saw the two of during his little stunt, and because you expect him to finally put you the hell _down._

He doesn’t do so, choosing instead to latch and lock the windows again.

“Slick, let me down. We’re here already, you ass.”

“Shut up, Sleuth.” He grumbles, reaching back with one arm to grope for your hat. Resignedly, you hand it to him. At least he’s being nice enough to hang it up.

Aaand- Never mind. Your hat goes on his floor, along with your shoes and socks. You have no idea how he’s keeping you balanced while he undresses you, let alone why he’s choosing to undress you instead of just putting you down and having you do it yourself. Soon you’re wriggling again to get the hell down, one of his hands still tight across your back, keeping you pinned. The other one’s busy at your belt buckle.

Your belt isn’t the only thing he’s brushing up against under there. You moan.

“Jegus,” he curses, abandoning your pants to kick off his shoes. You helpfully knock his hat to the floor for him.

He smacks you on the ass.

“Slick, what the fuck-“

“Don’t mess with the hat, shithead, how many times I gotta tell you that, fer fuck’s sake,” he grumbles noncommittally, turning to walk down the hall. He reaches his bedroom, which requires yet another set of keys. They’re produced quickly, and you’re hit with the usual wave of jealousy at his uncanny ability to easily find keys and avoid weird puzzle shit.

Once in he kicks the door closed behind you and locks it with a fairly ominous click.

You go ragdoll to try and throw him off-guard before he tosses you on the bed. You lie still for a moment, like a good little mobster’s boyfriend, eying him as he sheds his overcoat and jacket. Down to his vest and shirtsleeves, he turns to grin at you.

You grin back, gesturing for him to come join you. He climbs on the bed with the grace of a cat, sliding up your body. You cup one of his dark cheeks in your hands, running a thumb over his lips. You smile at him softly.

And sock him so hard in the jaw he’s sent half-off the side of the bed.

You spring for the door, fumbling the keys you fished out of his pants pocket. You’ve just got it open when you feel him jump for you.

You step back to let him launch himself out and through the door. He smacks against the opposite wall, landing in a heap in the hallway. You step over him and sprint to the living room. You can get back home without shoes just fine, but you’re not leaving your hat. He’ll just dye it black and tip it obnoxiously at you like he did the last one.

You’ve got your hat in hand before you realize you have no idea which key unlocks the front door. There’s ten of the damn things on the ring and you know if you take the time to try all of them Slick’s going to have you pinned to the floor with a knife in your side for your trouble.

You jump towards the window and start fumbling at the lock when you hear him pounding down the hall after you. You turn to look, and there he is, seething. His shirt is crumpled, his tie’s lopsided, his hair’s mussed, and he looks _pissed_.

He also looks really, _really_ hot.

You dive for the couch, putting it between you and him. Time to try some of your famous diplomacy.

“You know Slick,” you say in what you hope is a soothing tone. “This could have been avoided if you’d have just let me walk here.”

“Didn’t want to,” he growls.

“But why?” you ask exasperatedly.

“Told you”, he replies gruffly. “I didn’t _want_ to.”

You’re getting annoyed, and you feel your diplomacy stat hit the bottom when you snap back at him. “It’s not all about you, you bastard. Do you know how humiliated I would have been if anyone had seen me like that? Do you know what they would have thought?”

His eye twitches in time with his jaw as he steps towards you. You shrink back, getting ready to run in the opposite of whichever direction he comes from.

“They would _probably_ think we were fucking,” he seethes. Two more steps towards you. You tense.

He feints left, and you start to go right. Then he’s vaulting over the couch, crashing into you. Once you’re both on the ground he’s got you pinned, trusty knife back at your throat. His grin is a blade, but his eyes are oddly soft.

“Which is exactly what I’m pretty sure we’re doing,” he says quietly. There’s an edge of vulnerability to it, and you’re not so distracted by the steel pressed against your throat that you can’t recognize it.

You let yourself relax under him. Not rag-doll limp like when you’re playing him, but more of an exhausted sprawl.

Trust Slick to be the only Kingpin-level mob boss in Midnight City who needs reassurance about his relationship status.

“Slick, we’re fucking. I’d say we’re doing more than fucking, seeing as I have a set of spare clothes stashed here and in practically every other hideout you have in the city. You have a toothbrush back at my place. I keep your brand of coffee on stock, and you keep candy-corn liqueur in your cabinet even though you hate the stuff. I let your Crew clean me out in poker every Friday. Snowman refers to me as your dame on the side. What’s this about?"

He deflates a bit, letting up on your throat with the knife. “You keep seeing that dame,” he grumbles.

You can feel a headache building. “HD is a friend, Slick. Not that you’d know much about them, but friends tend to hang around each other.”

“’Friends’ don’t go dancing at the fucking nightclubs, asshole,” he snarks back. He’s looking a little guilty though, so you know you’ve got him on the run.

You laugh, not unkindly. “Yeah, they _do_. Just dancing with a gal doesn’t mean I’m sweet on her, Slick.”

“You used to be,” he shoots back. Anger’s building back in his voice, and he’s turned his head to stare into the carpet. Tentatively, you reach a hand up, turn him to face you.

“Used to is used to,” you say softly. “Dame and I were a thing for a while, yeah. But we aren’t anymore. We haven’t been. Not since I met you.”

He melts a little into your hand at that. You both stay there for a bit, him heavy on your chest and you not minding a bit.

Eventually he clambers off of you, awkwardly extending a hand to pull you up. You take it, wincing at the bruises you feel forming on your ass and back where you hit the floor. He looks a little chagrined at your grimace, and his grip on your wrist is surprisingly gentle when he pulls you back towards his room.

You both end up standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. The mood’s a little broken after the sap talk, but you can tell by the way he’s twitching that he still really wants to fuck.

So do you.

You take the initiative, surprise tackling him to the bed. You roll the two of you until he’s on his back beneath you, his mouth a snarl of surprise. You grin down at him, pressing his wrists over his head.

You understand that he was feeling emotionally vulnerable, and that Slick Spades confronted with emotions is even more of an asshole than Slick Spades is normally, but you’re still getting your payback for him carrying you to his apartment like a sack of potatoes.

You grind your knee up into his crotch, pressing none-too-gently. He groans, wrists straining against your grip. You continue like this until you’ve had enough of his groaning to be satisfied. You lean down to kiss him.

It’s rough and sloppy and hot per usual. You think the day Spade Slick kisses you gently would be the same day your imagination stat finally hits the roof and sends you into a spiral of insane delusions. His teeth are sharp on your lip, and you taste a little blood.

You kiss him harder, increasing pressure with your knee, rubbing circles into the hollows of his wrists. Pulling back, you’re pleased to see a deep blush on his dark skin. He looks up at you for a bit, hint of a grin tucked in the corner of his mouth. You go to kiss it, smug that you’ve got him so calmed down.

And that’s when the fucker hooks a leg up around your knee, breaks your hold on  his wrists, and rolls you under him. In seconds he’s got both of your ties off and has used them to secure your wrists to the headboard.

He sits back on your legs, grinning.

“You look good like that, Sleuth,” he purrs, drawing a small knife out of his sleeve. “Maybe I should tie you up a little more often, keep you from wandering off like the dog you are.” There’s a tease in his voice that tells you he doesn’t mean much by it, but you know for a fact he likes seeing you tied up. There’s been more than one occasion when he’s had to come to your rescue after the Felt have kidnapped you for funzies and you’ve ended up not only tied to a chair but tied to a chair with a lap and mouth full of Spade Slick.

He moves the tip of the knife teasingly up your chest. You know it’s one of the ones he’s dulled specifically for this purpose because it doesn’t immediately shred your coat. He’s a softy at heart, really.

He’s tracing the knife along your jaw now, sharp teeth bared in a fierce smile. You grin back. If we’re being fair, you’re getting off from this as much as he is.

Maybe more.

He nicks you in the jaw and leans up to suck at the wound. You moan, and the blade gets tossed across the room to imbed in the wall. His fingers are busy at your coat as he sucks at the cut, fangs digging in to bring up more blood.

Soon enough your coat, jacket, vest, and shirt are unbuttoned and he’s sliding his hands up your chest beneath your undershirt. He pushes it up, rucking it up to your shoulders to expose the muscled expanse of your stomach. He circles one sharp thumbnail around a nipple, digging in to make you gasp as he moves a bony knee up to press at your crotch.

“Slick, buddy,” you groan. “C’mon, you’re killing me here.”

He chuckles. You feel a very bad pun coming when he rubs his crotch up against your thigh, letting you feel the heat and press of his erection.

“Ain’t stabbed you yet, Sleuth,” he says and fuck, you can tell from his tone that he thinks he’s the funniest damn man in the world and he’s just so awful it warms your heart. “Knife’s still in the sheaf.”

You groan, not a sexy groan, a for-fucks-sake-Slick-stop-trying groan, and kick him in the ass with one foot.

He scowls at you, working your belt open.

“Fuck you, I’m hilarious.”

“You’re awful,” you retort, wriggling your hips to help him slide your pants and boxers off. You pant into his mouth when he leans back in to kiss you. He starts stroking your prick in one callused hand, working at his own pants with the other.

“You’re awful, you’re horrible, you’re the opposite of funny and always will be, and if you don’t get to fucking me I’m going to break these ties like you know I damn well can and walk out that door because your jokes are just that terrible."

He bites your lip when you’re finished, draws back to glare at you. He digs his nails into your hip, makes you bleed a little bit for the snark. You smirk up at him. He knows it’s all in good fun, even if you mean every word of it. By now he’s managed to get his pants down around his thighs and his cock is out, hard and leaking.

“You going to take off your shirt?” you ask him with a charming smile.

“I shouldn’t, seeing as you’re a pain in my ass and I don’t owe you any favors,” he snarks back.

You try to resist.

No you don’t.

“Pretty sure you’re about to be a pain in mine, so off with it,” you command, chuckling at your own joke.

Slick shakes his head at you, stripping off his vest and shirts anyways. He’s all wiry lean muscle and dark, scarred skin. His dark hair’s already a mess from your tussle in the living room, and his eyes are full of heat.

He’s beautiful.

You tap him on the calf with your foot when he’s done stripping. “Slick?” you say questioningly.

“What,” he grunts, settling back between your bare thighs.

Got him again.

“Slick, as in lube,” you grin at him like an idiot. He narrows his eyes, reaches up and rakes his nails painfully down your chest. You wince. It’s worth it.

He leans off the side of the bed to rummage in the bed stand for a moment. With a satisfied _hmph_ , he produces the lube. You flap your wrists at him, trying to draw attention to the fact that your hands are still, you know, tied to the bed.

“Okay, time to untie the detective.”

He glares. “I can do it.”

You give him a pointed look, turn said look to his pointed nails, and turn the look back to him.

He reddens. “I’ll be careful.” He grits through his teeth, uncapping the tube.

“Slick,” you say slowly. You’re actually trying not to piss him off at this point, because you really do need him to untie your hands.  “There’s a lot of places I’m okay with you making me bleed. My ass is not one of them.”

He looks at you, considering.

And promptly heads into the bathroom.

Two minutes of sitting in the rapidly cooling air with your cock standing at painful attention later, you yell to him. “Did you fall in?”

“Shut the fuck up, you pansy,” he shouts back out. One more minute ticks by and he emerges, seemingly no different than before.

Until you get a look at his nails, that is.

“Slick, did you seriously just trim your razor claws so you didn’t have to untie me?

“No, I trimmed them so they wouldn’t make your soft nancy-boy innards bleed when I shove them up your ass,” he replies, hiking one of your legs over his shoulders.

You love it when he’s thoughtful.

You shiver a bit at the cold press of his fingers into you. It warms up soon enough, and it’s not long before you find yourself panting, thrusting your hips down on his hand. He brings the count up to two, scissoring to give your muscles a slow stretch. He’s hasty though, and he’s up to three before you have much time to adjust.

He stops. You open your eyes, not really remembering when you’d closed them. They open to a strange sight.

Spades Slick, gangster, boss of the Midnight Crew and angry stabbing mobster extraordinaire is kneeling between your legs, one hand soft on the thigh you have hooked over his shoulder. He’s looking at you with something approaching open affection, or the closest thing you think you’ve ever seen to open affection on his face when he’s not looking a Scottie dogs or cleaning his favorite knife.

It’s a little disconcerting, to be honest. And it makes your insides unaccountably warm.

You risk a small smile. That seems to wake him a bit. He stops looking at you so softly, and instead offers you a dirty grin.

“Wanna see my stabs, Sleuth?” he half-sneers. You laugh a bit, knock him in the head with one knee.

“Bring it on, you disaster,” you chuckle warmly.

Grinning, he draws both of your legs up around his waist, and presses in. You dig your hands into themselves at the rough stretch, breathing deep in an effort to relax. It hasn’t been that long since the two of you have done this, but Slick's big for a scrawny fella, and usually you do your own prep. He’s not quite as thorough.

Soon enough you’ve adjusted as much as you can and it’s all rough friction and heat. He punctuates his thrusts by panting into your thigh, occasionally pressing small bites into your inner knee and soothing them over with licks of his tongue.

He’s got you feeling full and a little helpless in a blissed out, cared-for way that you usually get when he ties you up and fucks you like this. You’re not always fond of ceding him so much control, but when you do-

It’s quite the experience.

As time goes on both of you adjust and his relatively careful thrusts get sharper, faster. He leans forward to press his chest to yours, pulling your hips up into his lap. He’s got one hand pressed up into your back, pulling you to him, and the other pressed on the bed for support. Your hips are cradled in his, and you’re practically bouncing as he fucks into you. Your breath is getting short by the second, huffing out of you in little gasps with every thrust.

He starts going faster as time passes on, picking up tempo. Everything’s heat and sweat and absolutely wonderful. Your mind’s hazy as you strain upwards into him, pulling against the headboard as you try to get his mouth on yours, get some friction for your cock.

You don’t know if he gets the message or is just thinking the same thing but soon enough he’s sliding you back on the bed, pressing his hot chest along yours while he thumbs your cock. His mouth is on yours again and you moan into it as he strokes just out of tempo with his thrusting. You know he’s doing it on purpose, the bastard, to try and keep you from the edge for just a little longer. He’s an excellent musician, and the only way he’s ever off tempo is when he wants to be.

After some more sloppy make-outs in which his tongue fucks your mouth in the three part harmony with the rest of your bodies, he latches his teeth into your shoulder. You groan as his hips and hands speed up, your nerves on fire and GPI it all feels so _good_.

You try to hold back when you notice how much attention he’s giving you, when you open your eyes long enough to see the concentrated look on his face. The little shit’s intent on seeing you come first, and you’re not eager to hand him that victory too after all the other ones he gained over you today. You breathe deep and try to focus on anything, anything but the hot, slick pull of his hand on your cock or the wonderful stretch and pressure of him thrusting in and out of your ass.

He’s catching on to your game, and resorts to dirty tactics like the criminal he is. He slows his hips a bit, aiming more carefully for your prostate. He’s hitting it every other time now, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to burst.

You tighten down your muscles in retaliation, doing your best to squeeze the length of him. You moan filthily into his ear.

“Slick, Slick, Slick,” you moan like a mantra. It’s only half an appeal to his ego, only half an attack. You are really that far gone, he’s making you feel so good.

His breath hitches and his hips stutter for a moment before resuming their rougher pace. You think you’ve got him on the run when there’s suddenly a hand at your ass, kneading the muscle. You groan.

That dirty fucking _cheater_ , he knows how much you can’t take that.

Soon enough the other hand’s gone down to join it’s brother, and Slick’s got both hands digging into the meat of your rump while his cock works in and out of you.

He disengages from your shoulder, leans up to grin in your ear.

“Get on with it, you Prospit slut,” his hisses, and you-

You are _done_.

You moan like the slut he called you when you spill over your stomach. Through the haze of orgasm you feel him follow soon afterwards.

He slumps down on top of you, disengaging his softening cock from your ass. Carefully, you lower your legs from around his waist. They’re a little tingly, but nowhere near as numb as you’d been afraid they’d be.

You let Slick lie for a bit, breathing in the smell of him.

Your arms are getting tired though, so it’s not long before you’re prodding him in the hip with a knee to let you loose.

He does so, grumbling incoherently as his nimble fingers work the knots. As soon as you’re free you shed your remaining clothing, and pull Slick up.

Exhausted and happily sore, you work the blankets out from under the both of you until you’re both beneath them. That done, Slick curls up around you, pressing his chest into your back. He wraps his arms around your waist tightly. He’s pleasantly warm, and his breath teases your ear. It feels nice.

Until you start to feel distinctly unpleasant. Drying come is tacky and you’re starting to stick to the sheets. You try to get up to wash, but Slick isn’t letting go.

You poke him a bit.

“Whmrgh,” he grumbles at you, one eye slitting open to glare at you blearily.

“Let me up.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance.”

“Slick, I’m starting to stick to the sheets.”

“Your problem, not mine.”

“There’s come smeared on your dick too, dipshit.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, releasing you. You stumble to the bathroom. He snickers at you, the bastard.

You wet a washcloth with hot water from the sink, grateful not for the first time that Slick has plumbing in all of his hideouts. After wiping yourself down you rinse it out and wring it till it’s just damp.

Exiting, you hit the light and grab both of your boxers off the floor. Once you crawl back into bed you reach down and wipe Slick off. He grins dopily up at you as a thank-you. He appreciates the weirdest things.

You hand him what you’re pretty sure are his drawers and pull on what you’re pretty sure are yours. They feel a little tight, so you may be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. You’re not too worried about it though. You figure if a guy’s cock has been in your ass, wearing his drawers isn’t exactly something to flip off the handle about.

Tossing the washcloth aside, you let Slick curl up around you again, your legs tangling.

“’Night, Slick,” you mumble into a pillow.

His hands squeeze your sides. “Night, you fucking pansy,” he grumbles into your neck.

It’s not long before you’re asleep, and not much longer after that before you feel a sharp elbow in your side.

“Stop snoring, you fat fuck,” he grumbles in your ear. You grin, pressing back into him.

It’s a pretty good night, overall.


End file.
